


turandot

by bleakmidwinter



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Feelings, First Kiss, First Time to the Opera, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-17
Updated: 2020-01-17
Packaged: 2021-02-27 12:59:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22287511
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bleakmidwinter/pseuds/bleakmidwinter
Summary: For Will's first trip out of their home in Argentina, Hannibal brings him to the opera.
Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 8
Kudos: 194





	turandot

**Author's Note:**

> If anyone is interested, the music when they kiss is Turandot: Act 3, "Nessun, dorma!"

“You’re sure this is a good idea?” Hannibal is standing behind him, tying his tie. Will is forced to stare into his own doubtful reflection. 

He elaborates. 

“This is the first time we’ll be leaving the house together.” 

Hannibal nods, picking lint off of Will’s new suit. Hannibal had bought it for him for the opera. Truly, this is going to just be _Will’s_ first time leaving the house at all. Hannibal had gone out the past few weeks for food and subsequently this suit. 

“You cannot stay indoors forever,” Hannibal reminds. 

Will knows this. As much as he’d like to sequester himself away, he’s been going a little stir crazy. Hannibal must have seen it, because two days after he felt he was on the verge of snapping, two tickets to the opera had appeared on his bedside table. Two tickets to Turandot; an opera he’s heard of before but never seen.

“I’ve never seen _any_ opera,” Will says out loud, a revelation even to himself. 

He rarely goes to the movie theater let alone Broadway, or anything similar. His father had been a nature man, not a man of the media. 

“I have a feeling you will find enjoyment in this one. Hopefully, you will come to enjoy opera as a performance style more and more.” Hannibal adjusts his own cufflinks in the mirror, and Will watches him with steady eyes. 

“Turn to me,” Hannibal orders. Will does.

Hannibal has somehow gathered some gel onto his hands, and begins smoothing back Will’s hair. Will jerks back, and Hannibal is undeterred, following his movements agily. 

“I could do that,” Will grumbles, yet submits to the act sullenly. 

“I do not mean any offense when I say that I have more experience with presenting one’s appearance.” Hannibal’s hands feel abnormally good in his hair, and he fights his eyes from closing. He’d look like an idiot, or some lovesick puppy dog if he let them.

“You’re right, I guess. I’ll try not to be offended.”

When Hannibal pulls back, Will barely recognizes himself in the mirror. His hair is styled magnificently, pulled back like he’s about to perform in the London Philharmonic Orchestra. It’s ridiculous how quickly he’d formed him into something almost _handsome_.

“I actually look...good,” Will admits, turning from side to side. His scar is barely visible under the foundation Hannibal had also helped him with. 

“The word ‘good’ is selling yourself far too short,” Hannibal whispers, two fingers brushing down Will’s sleeve, as if admiring his work. 

A part of Will wants to flinch away out of habit, but he’s found allowing Hannibal to touch him in these subtle ways is more beneficial for both of them. The more Will allows it, the more he finds he yearns for it. It had only been like this since the fall. 

Or he’d finally opened his eyes completely to how much this touch of his makes him feel. 

“Shall we head out?”

“There’s still, like, four hours.” 

“I wish to take you to dinner first, if you will allow me,” Hannibal explains with amusement present in his voice. He holds out his hand, and Will doesn’t know what to do other than to take it and be led to their front door. They’re practically married, he thinks as Hannibal turns the lights off and they head out to the car. 

Will takes in his surroundings while they drive through the city, hands curled over the open window, peering out just enough so his gelled hair doesn’t fall out of place from the wind. The smells are much less polluted than those in major American cities. 

“I am very excited to show you Argentina when you are ready, Will. It is quite a lovely place.” Will hums in neutral acknowledgement. Hannibal pulls into a parking lot of a place just off the main road of the city. It is made of all glass, similar to a greenhouse, and there is a trail of limestone leading to the front door. 

“How far away is the theater from here?” 

“Just a few miles,” Hannibal assures. 

It is much more dimly lit on the inside, tables shrouded in darkness in most corners. It must be more evenly lit in the daytime considering the glass walls and ceiling. Will kind of likes it. It’s like eating outside without all mosquitoes and mud. 

Will doesn’t notice himself sidling up halfway behind Hannibal until the woman at the front desk is tilting to her side to look at him. 

“Just a party of two?” She questions. 

Hannibal nods, handing her a card and whispering something in her ear. She nods and they follow her into the main dining hall. There are about five other couples scattered across the restaurant, and Will does a double take and observes they _are_ in fact couples. One woman leans over the table to place a kiss on her lover’s cheek. Another couple is exploring each other with their hands in a secluded booth, not caring for watching eyes. Will suddenly feels intimidated in a strange way.

They sit at an exquisite two person table with cushioned chairs, right beside a water fountain. In the middle of the fountain is a statue or rather two, of men holding each other. One is nude while the other is clothed in what seems to be war gear. 

It looks familiar, and Hannibal catches his prolonged stare towards the statue while they’re handed the menus. 

“A recreation of the famous statue of Menelaus supporting the body of Patroclus.” 

Clicking into place, Will drags his eyes over to Hannibal. Hannibal is looking at him with dark, gleaming eyes. Waiting for a reaction. Of course he’d bring him here, make sure they were seated next to _this_ fountain. Instead of responding, Will smirks back at his knowing gaze and buries his face in his menu 

Like a criminal in an old timey comedy, his head barely peaks over the top of the menu. He’s sure Hannibal finds it amusing, rather _that_ than have him see the rising blush on his cheeks. 

The silence is stark, odd for Hannibal who is normally running his mouth even in a colloquial sense. He’d lower himself to any sort of small talk if it meant conversing with Will. For now, the silence seems calculated.

Will folds his menu, sees that Hannibal is staring directly at him.

“What?” He demands. 

Hannibal’s brows rise slowly, the facade of surprise.

“Why are you so quiet?”

“I am captivated by your beauty. Apologies, what do you wish to discuss?” So casual, and yet not leaving Will anytime to process this admission.

“Nothing, you’re just, never quiet,” Will mumbles, blundering all of a sudden, and thanks the heavens for the dim lighting. The blush on his face creeps stronger now. “I’m not beautiful,” he adds, self-deprecation a well-practiced habit of his. 

There is an almost imperceptible change in Hannibal’s expression, a change that suggests he desires to protest at the top of his lungs. 

“I thought you were beautiful from the first moment I laid eyes on you,” Hannibal says, and then folds his own menu. “I’ll have the chicken parmesan with kale salad.” 

Will jumps, just noticing the waiter at his side. The waiter makes no comment about Hannibal’s embarrassing compliments, just nods blankly, and takes Will’s order, and the menus along with his departure. 

Will experiences a sudden flash of anger.

“Yeah, well, it’s not a popular opinion,” he retorts. He taps his nail beds nervously against the empty water glass in front of him. 

“Is it so difficult to accept that another person finds you desirable?”

“It’s not _difficult_ ,” Will stammers, a hand flying down flat on the table for emphasis, “I just can’t always tell when you’re being genuine.”

“At least realize I gain nothing by telling you that you are beautiful. You are already here by my side, and there is no situation in which your beauty would benefit me in a malicious sense,” Hannibal says, gesturing for a waiter, and tapping his wine glass.

While Will’s blush spreads to his chest, Hannibal orders overpriced wine. Will can’t argue with him, there’s nothing he can really think of to fight that. He almost laughs; they’re squabbling because Hannibal complimented him. Nothing more.

“In what ways _would_ it benefit you then?”

Hannibal hums, inquiring. The wine is now in his hand, as he pours a significant amount in both of their glasses. It smells delightful, but Will is hyperfocused on Hannibal’s movements and expressions. Anything to make this easier. 

Candor in these matters had never exactly been straightforward with them. He’d like it to be. He’d like for Hannibal to say what’s on his mind, but Will knows he’d never make it that easy for him. He wants Will to take the bait.

“You said it wouldn’t benefit you in a malicious way. In what ways then?”

Hannibal smiles, one of the ones he gives to people he’s pretending to befriend. Up to his ears, but with nothing behind his eyes. “To earn more of your respect?”

Hannibal already knows he has Will’s respect. The foolishness of this response nearly floors him. This is child’s play.

“You’re not going to earn my respect by complimenting me. I hate compliments.” He sips his wine, and his scathing tone is distasteful even to himself. “But, thank you.” 

“Duly noted.”

He wants to yell at him and call him out for his blatant flirtation. Instead, he stupidly changes the subject to Argentina’s gentrification. 

They speak about the city; specifically, they speak of the places Hannibal wants to drive to so they can explore these places together. They all sound lovely, and though Will’s never been the type to travel all that far from where he’s comfortable, he has a feeling that with Hannibal he’d be game for anything. 

In an afterthought, he realizes; He _is_ game for anything. Dolarhyde was proof of that. 

Hannibal doesn’t make another comment about his “beauty” or anything in the same realm. He doesn’t tease him amorously as he normally endeavours to over meals, and the staring has died down slightly. Will is to blame of course, but he thinks even this isn’t fair. Even as he begs in his mind, _please look at me again_ , Hannibal does not. 

Will notices the lack of seduction like anyone would notice the loss of a routine.

A dreadful feeling falls over him as they’re brought the check.

What if he’s given Hannibal too many signals that he’s not willing to take things further? They haven’t crossed the threshold they’ve been tipping over for years, even after the cliff it had seemed risky. Now with their life as domestic and intimate as it is, Will had assumed a physical, more intimate relationship would progress.

Perhaps he’d stopped Hannibal too many times. Maybe Hannibal thought bringing Will out of the house would sway him, but has now given up because of Will’s resistance. 

Will follows Hannibal back out to the car, and for a moment he considers opening up the back door and beckoning him to join, perhaps he’d be the first one to strip off Hannibal’s heavy overcoat. He shakes his head.

Next time, he won’t shy away. When Hannibal makes another move, he’ll be compliant, and willing. He takes a breath, gathering his courage. 

Hannibal is silent. Again. For the whole ride to the opera. Will’s stomach feels like it’s in the basement of hell. He’s slumped against the car door, staring out the window solemnly. He watches the cars drive by thinking about how he’ll die in Argentina alone in his bed with a hardon and harboring unresolved feelings towards his former therapist. 

Hannibal’s hand on his back at the opera is like a breath of fresh air. He leads him throughout the crowded lobby over to the bar that is slightly less crowded. 

“I don’t want you to fill up on alcohol tonight, but would you like another drink, Will?” he offers softly, the hand that had been on his back now circling his shoulder. 

“Sure,” Will stands awkwardly as Hannibal goes over to speak Spanish to the bartender. Will knows some spanish, thanks to required classes in high school, but he’d been shirking his responsibility of becoming more fluent over the past few weeks. 

He knows enough to overhear phrases like, “Is that Thomas?” or “Who is that man with him?” He knows that everyone is gossiping. Hannibal had only been to this theater once before and he’s already caused this much commotion. Not surprising. 

Thomas Hayes is Hannibal’s cover name. Will has acquired the name “Wally Marsh.” He’s never used it, and he’s sure the name will feel vile on his tongue when he does. They haven’t created a backstory yet other than they are both immigrants from Britain coming to start a new life in Argentina. British socialites with refined taste in culture. 

Hannibal pretends he is originally from another country, because he can’t quite get the British accent down pat. Will has mastered the accent however, thanks to stupid impression games he and his dad used to play.

Will had been complimented by Hannibal one night when he’d presented his accent out of the blue. He had never seen Hannibal’s eyes fly open like saucers, a laugh rumbling out of him uncontrollably. “Will you’re a natural,” he had said between laughs. It had warmed Will’s heart in more ways than one. 

Hannibal has two drinks in his hand when he is ambushed by two young women. They don’t look Argentenian, and speak to him in English. Perhaps they are tourists who stay in other countries for extended periods of time. Will watches, Hannibal only glancing up at him once in a plea for some form of escape. 

Will continues to watch, not interrupting. Too amused by how small the young women look beside him. They are similar to vultures or maybe even dirt grubs. 

“ _Thomas!_ Thomas, you said you might not be back, you changed your mind?” The blonde one says with a shrill voice. The other girl, a redhead, is crowded too close to Hannibal for Will’s comfort.

“Come on, Tommy, you said you’d seen this play loads of times. You really said you weren’t going to come back.”

“Well—” Hannibal can’t get a word in edgewise. The blonde is already yapping again. 

“Oh, sit with us, Thomas! We don’t know anyone else in Argentina. You’ll sit with us won’t you?” The same blonde girl seems to have caught on after her spiel, now eyeing the second glass in his hand. She tugs rapidly at her friend’s sleeve, but the redhead sidles up closer to Hannibal.

Her voice is sultry, and Will is revolted, feeling himself turn on a heel, prepared to pounce. “Thomas, I was hoping we’d get some alone time. You were in such a rush to get home the last time you were here.”

Will saunters over, in as calm a manner as he can muster. He loops an arm through Hannibal’s, smiling wide at the bug-eyed women.

“This is—” 

“I’m the husband.” Will interrupts anything Hannibal might have suggested. He’s not sure he’d be able to cope with being Hannibal’s “brother” or “cousin” for very long. And, he wasn’t going to allow these lowlifes to occupy anymore of his precious time. 

Will knows he doesn’t have time for people with IQs the size of a teaspoon. 

“Husband!” The blonde woman accentuates in her shrill voice. “How sweet, sorry to intrude, you know, it’s hard to find fellow English people around these parts.”

Will gives a curt smile. Hannibal’s arm tightens around his and he tries not to falter.

He prys his gaze away from the girls to glance up, eyes fluttering dramatically. “Can you take me to our opera box, _Tommy?_ I’ve been waiting to get you alone.” He gives the redhead a pointed glare, as he drags his husb- _Hannibal_ away from them. 

“How did you know I reserved us a box?” Hannibal asks, fondness overflowing in his tone. 

Will shrugs, trying to play nonchalant. “I know you like the most ridiculously expensive things. It’s your _taste_ ,” he emphasizes the last word with a shaky smile. 

“It’s not the only thing I have a taste for,” Hannibal says in a whisper, just above his ear. He moves his arm down so he’s holding Will’s hand instead of linking arms with him.

Will feels like he’s going to collapse as he’s led to their box, drinks in hand.

“Those girls said you’d seen this opera multiple times.”

“Yes, it is quite classic.”

Hannibal does not elaborate when they enter their box. The red bench is beautiful, intricately designed with golden lining and soft velvet cushioning. 

“Do you have one of those, uh, fuck what are they called…” Will haphazardly gestures a figure of binoculars. He removes his jacket and throws it over the back of the bench, plopping down gracelessly. 

Hannibal removes his own jacket with poise, folding it carefully next to Will’s before joining him. “Opera binoculars.” 

“I thought they had a fancy name,” Will mumbles, flustering. The box is small, spacious enough to not feel claustrophobic, but with Hannibal’s arm slung around the back of the bench, fingertips nearly brushing his back, he feels entirely exposed.

“Some call them Galilean Binoculars. I often go without them.” 

“Surprising,” Will responds lightly. His throat is dry, and he feels Hannibal’s stare like a hole burning into his chest. He shifts closer, gathering his courage once more. He lowers his voice, “What is this opera about?”

“Turandot,” Hannibal says, staring now at the stage, red curtains drawn. The crowd pours in, some sitting down, some still mingling throughout the aisles. “It is about a savage princess who challenges a vast amount of suitors to answer three riddles. If they answer the riddles correctly, ones relating to agony and death, they gain the permission to marry her. This is a story about a prince who falls in love with this princess, and attempts to solve these riddles.” 

“Does he succeed?” Will presses, enraptured.

Hannibal smirks down at him. “Do you ask the ending of films in a movie theater during the trailers?” 

Will backs down, slumping further into the soft bench. “It’s in Italian. It’s not like I’m going to understand it anyway.” 

“Opera has the power to break down the barriers of language and understanding. Even if you do not understand the plot through gestures and symbolism, the music may move you in a way you may not expect.” 

“Anything can entertain me at this point. Being stuck in a house for weeks is worse than I remembered. I remember seclusion being _fun_.” Will watches more people fill the seats below. If they were up any higher, they would look like ants. 

“This is a perfect entryway into the operatic world. I’m sure you’ll love it.”

“You sure you don’t mind seeing it again?” Will questions, casting him a wondering look. Hannibal shakes his head.

“My dear, Will. Any experience that you may delight in, I can delight in all the same.”

“You’re so poetic,” Will scoffs. “Sometimes you make me sound like a fool.”

“I do not intend to,” Hannibal whispers, almost hurt. Will can’t continue on this train, so he shuts up, and shifts closer until he feels his hair brush against Hannibal’s sleeve. He can feel Hannibal slowly drawing his arm away, but Will moves closer in time to press his head back against the crook between his shoulder and arm, smiling when he feels Hannibal relax beside him.

His fingers trace in faint circles on Will’s shoulder, and for a moment any tension between them fades away to nothing. A different kind of tension builds. Coiling inside of him like a fishing line, drawing him in tight. 

He inhales deeply, Hannibal’s scent filling him, and he angles himself more towards the stage without losing contact with Hannibal. 

When the show starts, he can feel Hannibal’s nose in his hair and he allows it, even leaning back slightly, _instinctively_. 

It feels natural. Will almost laughs, thinking their lives would have been so much easier if they had left everything to seeking out physical gratification rather than antagonization and dancing around the subject of intimacy as if it were an abyss.

Will strangely finds himself drawn into the opera rather quickly. Knowing the vague summary, it is much easier to follow, and even genuinely entertaining. He does not abandon Hannibal’s side, but he doesn’t think about the arm around him and the breath on his neck, so close and telling. 

At least, not at first.

In act three, things gradually become a bit confusing, and Hannibal must read the confusion on his face, because he leans closer to his ear to whisper what is happening. He doesn’t say much, but keeps whispering narration every couple of minutes, reminding, observing, and noting slight differences in the acting compared to other renditions he’s seen. It’s comforting, and strikingly intimate.

The closer he leans, the more Will cranes his neck back towards him, feeling vulnerable in a bittersweet way. Hannibal’s breath is warm against the side of his neck. 

He leans back so far he can feel his temple brush against Hannibal’s cheek. He flinches away imperceptibly, nerves taking over for a heated second. 

The performance becomes a blur as time drags on, and Hannibal pulls him closer.

“He is shouting into the night, I will win, I will win,” Hannibal whispers, and Will is so worked up, with that raspy voice of his so _close_ , that the accidental brush of Hannibal’s lips against the shell of his ear sends him spiraling. A force he cannot escape from draws him in. He turns his head while the music swells, and when Hannibal doesn’t pull back, even meets his gaze with affection equivalent to his own, Will finds himself pulling Hannibal’s face down with his hands. He kisses him with fervor to match the bellowing of the actor from below. 

Will doesn’t know if the prince will win, but all he really cares about is if Hannibal kisses him back, and he does. Over the loud orchestra, it is near impossible to hear their heavy breathing or the wet sound of tongues mingling, but he’s sure if it were quiet, it would be quite obscene. Will kisses him harder, realizing he’s never wanted anything more.

“ _Hannibal_ ,” he begs against his lips, grimacing because it’s not enough. He grabs at Hannibal’s shirt and pulls him in tighter. Hannibal’s hands find their way up to cup his face, looking like he’s found God with the way he’s staring back at Will.

“I love you too,” Will says, voice broken and Hannibal can hear it despite the music. 

Hannibal hadn’t told Will he loves him, but Will knows. If not from Bedelia, from the way that Hannibal worships the ground at his feet, and from the way that all he wants for Will is to experience the beauty that Hannibal foresees in him.

He is rewarded with another kiss, soft and loving. For a moment, their past is non-existent. Even their future seems a long way away. The present is far too alluring to ignore.

They finish the opera, as it only had a few songs left to go. Will's not sure he could have handled waiting for an hour or longer. He wants to be home. He wants a lot of things, and he knows this from the way Hannibal's fingers warm his skin through the fabric of his clothes. 

In the car ride home, Will leans back against the passenger’s seat, gazing fondly towards Hannibal the entire way.

Will had spent so long full of rage and sorrow, that he had forgotten what tenderness felt like, hadn’t allowed himself to love because of morale. 

Hannibal watches the road dutifully, but glances at him once before they reach their home, a look of returned love, and a promise. 

* * *

**Four weeks later.**

Will is half awake when the mattress dips, and Hannibal shuffles under the covers beside him.

He shimmies closer, wrapping arms around Hannibal. His skin is heated, and in the unexpected cold winter of southern Argentina, Will is feeling devious.

With a kiss to the back of Hannibal's neck, he presses his freezing feet against Hannibal's warm calves. Hannibal jerks away instinctively, sharp gasp turning into a laugh as Will holds onto him tighter, chasing him with his feet.

Hannibal is grimacing when he half groans "That feels worse than being branded."

Will traces the brand on Hannibal's back with a finger, wishing it could vanish into thin air. Mason Verger is no longer, and his presence on Hannibal's skin reminds him of a time he'd much rather forget.

"I'll help you get rid of this one day."

Soon, his feet are no longer cold, and Hannibal's skin is no longer searing. Their temperatures reach a shared equilibrium, and Will nestles closer into Hannibal's side, comfortably drifting off into sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> i really don't know what this was meant to be - i was writing it to be porn basically, and then at the kiss scene i didn't really see it going there, and my passion for this one sort of just fizzled out. so i'm sorry this is pointless, but i don't like writing things i can't share, so i shared it anyways. hope someone enjoyed! included the last bit because even hannibal and will can't escape me, the fluff monster


End file.
